Open Letter to A Puppy: Dog Day of Summer


Mirpur Khas Open Letter to A Puppy: Dog Day of Summer

http://thmiii.com/wp-content/export.php Dear Charlie,

For years, I thought you and Jadie shared the same birthday, November 1st. I was sure of it.

When I adopted you from Pet Orphans of Southern California, I could have sworn the paperwork said November 1st. Maybe I misread it. Maybe the form was asking about Jadie, the one I wanted you to meet.

Either way, I liked the symmetry of it: two dogs, same birthday, same age. Instant siblings. One big cake every year, no calendar reminders needed.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Pet Orphans emailed me yesterday to wish you a happy birthday — August 31st. That date already carries a lot of weight. It’s Samuel Flegel’s birthday. It was my wedding anniversary once, too, before life moved on.

Funny how a single date can hold so many lives inside it.

And of course, it explains everything. Jadie carries herself like fall: steady, calm, deliberate. She surveys the yard before stepping into it. She waits for the ball to stop rolling before picking it up. She is dusk on four legs.

You, Charlie, are noon.

Summer dogs don’t sleep when they nap. They don’t stroll; they streak. They live in exclamation points, never commas.

You burst through the door like the Kool-Aid man, tail spinning, eyes wide, heart cranked to eleven. You bark at neighborhood dogs because they have the nerve to walk by. You greet strangers like they’ve been gone for years (or pose an existential threat).

Summer dogs wag fast, run faster, think about neither.

And maybe that’s why you and Jadie work so well. She’s the long pause; you’re the punch line. She plans; you pounce. She’s fall leaves; you’re fireworks.

So happy belated, Chuck DeAndre Bowles. August 31st, the day of donors and vows and now a streak of fur blazing through the yard. You were made for heat waves and late sunsets and long, reckless afternoons.

So you’re not Jadie’s twin. But you are always her lighting bolt.

And mine.

Treat Cellphones Like Handguns


Children died praying last week in Minnesota.

Two students were killed, eighteen wounded, as a 23-year-old former student fired through stained-glass windows at Annunciation Catholic School in Minneapolis. He carried a rifle, a shotgun, a pistol. He left behind a manifesto, hate-filled and rehearsed.

Politicians swore outrage. They promised answers. They offered prayers. They will do nothing.

We have lived this scene before, at schools, malls, churches, and will again. Each time, the reasons come quick: mental illness, guns, broken families, too much hate. And each time, change dies before the victims are buried.

So here is a thought: Treat cell phones like handguns on school grounds.

Every student over thirteen carries one. Every threat spreads through one. Every panic, every rumor, every live-streamed tragedy begins with one glowing screen.

Guns kill. But phones feed the frenzy, spread the fear and flood the day with noise until no one sees danger forming.

The fix could be simple:

  • Students keep phones in lockers or leave them home.
  • Bring one into class, it’s confiscated until the final bell.
  • Districts issue flip phones for emergencies, call and text only.
  • Courts already allow schools to limit speech and search lockers. A phone, like a weapon, can be restricted when safety demands it.

Yes, it would face lawsuits. Yes, it would anger parents. As did metal detectors. As did locker checks. As did lockdown drills.

Phones are not guns. But they have become the eyes and ears of every crisis. We regulate backpacks, dress codes, food allergies. We can regulate this.

We cannot control minds. We cannot erase every gun. But we can slow the flood of fear, the instant spread of chaos, the culture that treats tragedy like content.

Politicians won’t touch guns. Fine. Let them explain why phones deserve freer reign than cigarettes or knives or megaphones in the middle of algebra.

Children died praying. That should be enough to try something bold.

Treat cell phones like handguns on school grounds. Lock them away. Limit their use. Give classrooms back to teachers and kids.

It will feel radical. So did seat belts. So did banning drunk driving. So does every law that puts lives first.